


Mix Up

by certaintendencies



Series: Hummelinski Verse [2]
Category: Glee, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-28
Updated: 2012-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-15 05:28:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/certaintendencies/pseuds/certaintendencies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt and Stiles get used to being neighbors. And classmates. And probably eventually (hopefully) friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mix Up

It’s Sunday. Sort of gloomy in an overcast and damp but not actively rainy kind of way. Stiles doesn’t mind, though, because Stiles has his jeep back from impound. Which, yay hooray obviously, but also small amounts of boo, because it turns out he probably actually does need the exhaust system replaced, judging by how god awfully loud and terrible the hissing sounds are as he babies it down the street.

He makes a mental list of garages that might be open after five on a Sunday, and is trying to work out the closest one when his eyes flicker guiltily over to that garage. The one where Stiles wound up paralyzed while he watched a guy get smushed to death. To his surprise, it looks open. He slows down, squinting to get a better look, and sure enough, there’s a banner stretched across the front of the building, modestly proclaiming the business under new management. 

Huh. 

The Jeep lets out an indignant sort of rattling pop at being forced to idle, and Stiles winces, biting his lip briefly before shrugging and pulling into the empty parking area.

“Knock knock,” he calls as he steps out of the Jeep, looking around for signs of life. 

There’s movement from inside the bay, a thump and a clang that echo in the large, hollow space. “Be right out!”

Stiles nods and shoves his hands in his pockets, bouncing a little on his feet. He stops when he hears footsteps, and then he cocks his head stupidly because for some reason his neighbor being the new mechanic in town doesn’t compute for a few seconds. 

“Oh, hey,” says the man, Burt, Stiles recalls. It helps that it’s written on his shirt. “You’re the Sheriff’s kid. Stilinski.”

“Stiles,” he nods, shaking Burt’s dry, mostly clean hand.

“Exhaust problem?” Burt asks, nodding towards the Jeep.

“You could hear that, huh?” 

Burt smiles, raising an eyebrow, and Stiles finds himself laughing and looking down at the ground. Where he is currently standing in a puddle. He takes a step to the left and looks up once more.

“Why don’t you hand over the keys and I’ll get it inside and on the lift, see what we’re working with.”

Stiles, halfway through the key hand-off already, sort of freezes in place at the mention of the lift. He forces himself to lower his arm, dropping the keys into Burt’s hand and clearing his throat a couple times to make sure he’ll actually make sounds when he opens his mouth. “So uh, it’s fixed? The lift? Uh, safe?” Stiles figures he’s gotta know about the squashed guy. Full disclosure, and all that. They wouldn’t let a guy take over a garage without letting him know about the grisly slow-motion murder that took place there, right? Although it had been ruled an accident, Stiles remembers. Machinery malfunction. 

Burt gives him a keen look. “Yep. Fixed it myself. Even installed an emergency brake, at the repeated and loud insistence of my son. Nothin’ to worry about here.”

“Good,” Stiles nods, swallowing. “Uh, that’s good.”

Burt pats him on the shoulder, turning him to face the front door to the office. “Why don’t you go talk to Kurt about filling out a customer card, get things started in there while I check things out.”

Stiles nods and trudges towards the office door, wincing as the Jeep starts up and immediately lets out a gunshot-like pop.

The office is… different than Stiles remembers, brighter, somehow, definitely cleaner. The bell over the door tinkles pleasantly instead of beeping obnoxiously. There’s also a vending machine that wasn’t there before, and Stiles gives it a wide berth and a wary look as he heads to the counter. The kid sitting behind it looks even more well-groomed than he had when Stiles first saw him, which is kind of saying something. 

“Hey,” Stiles says, nodding as he reaches the counter. “Kurt, right?”

“Stiles,” Kurt says, after an almost imperceptible pause. There’s a weird little smile as he says it, too, like maybe he added a silent ‘P’ or something. Pstiles. 

Stiles leans into the counter, palms cupped around the edge of it, and then pushes himself back up straight. Kurt sets his magazine down somewhere underneath it and cocks his head.

“What can I do for you?”

“Ah, your dad sent me in here to get started on a… um, a customer card?”

Kurt nods, taps a few buttons on the keyboard off to his right, and then starts asking questions. He even swivels the screen around so that they can both see it after the second time Stiles almost falls over the counter trying to read what it says. 

“What’s that mean?” Stiles asks, pointing at the screen where it reads ‘LE’ under the discount column.

“Law enforcement,” Kurt replies absently, still typing away. “Your dad’s the sheriff, right?”

“Right,” Stiles says, eyes wide as rereads the letters. A discount. 

“Hey kids.”

Stiles spins around, elbow smacking hard into the countertop. He leans into the pain, like maybe he meant to do it. He isn’t terribly successful, judging by the look he gets from Burt. “So uh, what’s the damage?”

“Well, you need a whole new exhaust, it looks like someone took a grinder to the old one. And you could use a tune up.”

Stiles nods. 

Burt looks at him.

Stiles blinks. “Anything else?”

Burt shrugs, glancing over to Kurt, and then turns back to Stiles. “Nope. That’s about it. With a student discount it’ll probably run you about eight, eight twenty five.”

“Law enforcement,” Kurt pipes up from his spot behind the counter. He doesn’t look up from his magazine, which Stiles finds slightly suspect for reasons unknown. He looks at Burt, who also seems to find his son’s behavior suspect, but appears more amused than anything.

“Right,” Burt says. “Sheriff’s son. Call it seven fifty. That alright with you?”

It takes a moment for that to compute. “Seven hundred and fifty dollars?” he asks, just to be sure. “For everything?”

“…Yeah,” Burt draws the word out, like maybe Stiles is the weird one, even though he’s totally not. 

“Wow. That. Yeah. That is so okay with me.” Stiles reaches for Burt’s hand without thinking, grabbing it in both of his and giving it a few hearty shakes to convey his satisfaction. He gets grease on his hands, of course, but still. “Even that,” he says, waving his hands around. “Even that is okay with me. Seriously.”

Burt nods slowly and takes a step back. “Right. Well. Probably won’t get done tonight, but Kurt can give you a ride home, and then to school tomorrow, if that’s-”

“Also okay with me. Definitely.” Stiles says preemptively, because seriously, a taxi service, too? These guys are too much. And he might feel a little pathetic for being so amazed at something going well for him, but that’s not going to stop him from enjoying it.

“You’re washing your hands before you get in my baby,” Kurt informs him, closing the magazine with a snap and putting it back under the desk.

Stiles nods and looks around, searching for suitable hand-washing accoutrements.

“There’s a sink in the shop, against the back wall,” Burt informs him. “Use the orange stuff.” 

Stiles nods and takes an aborted step towards the door into the shop. He looks down at the handle, fairly innocuous looking, but the last time he’d touched it things hadn’t exactly ended well for him. Before he can work up the nerve to use it, Burt is there, pushing it down and shoving the door open for him with a small nod.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, slipping through before it closes and heading for the big metal sink in the back and the tub of hand scrub sitting next to it. He definitely does not glance furtively down at the cement floor in case there are suspicious stains.

Once his hands are exfoliated and citrusy fresh, Stiles makes his way back to the office. He hesitates, and then tugs his sleeve over his palm before turning the handle.

“-and no getting anything out of the vending machine, I’ll know.”

“What if a customer comes in and gets-”

“What if you have another heart attack, Dad? What then?”

Stiles trips over the edge of the ugly gray carpeting and flails forward, smashing his face into Burt’s side before a strong hand grips the back of his collar, hauling him upright again. “You okay, kid?”

“Sorry!” Stiles waves his hands, trying to find his balance. “Sorry, I have…” He looks back and forth between Burt and Kurt, taking in Kurt’s stormy expression, and finishes lamely, “Uh, feet.”

Kurt turns his seriously impressive laser glare up notch, still looking at his dad, and Burt raises his hands in surrender. “I won’t touch the vending machine, Kurt. I’ll even eat that tasteless broccoli stuff you like to make.”

Inclining his head regally, Kurt looks over at Stiles, who also raises his hands in surrender. “I like broccoli,” he says. “Not that I’m going to eat all of yours or anything. Just. In general. Pro-broccoli.”

Kurt blinks at him for a moment and then turns to give his dad a so there nod, saying firmly. “Home no later than six.”

“Sure thing, Boss,” Burt rolls his eyes.

And that’s pretty much when Stiles realizes he really likes his new neighbors.


End file.
